Disclaimer: I do not own any of the utterly fabulous characters by the
great J.K rowling. I don't have any crush on Draco Malfpy, I just think hes
a really dark, amazing characters with lots of color and is fun to write
about. Hehehe
\\
Well, thank you to the people who reviewed my latest chapter, hope u like
this!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Looking sharp, Malfoy..." Draco Malfoys reflection seemed to have said to him, a smirk on his face. The tall blond studied his reflection in the mirror. Potions had just ended fifteen minutes ago and he had dreadfully headed down to the Quiditch field. In the locker rooms he had shed of his school robes and was now clothed in stunning green, the emblem of Slytherin flashing defiantly on his chest. Well, this was it. The match he had been dreading with utter hate for the past few days. Very soon he would be soaring through the air, the wind ripping through his smooth, platinum hair, his team robes billowing out like a flag. Today, maybe just today victory might actually be his. With a sneer, he could imagine what would happen if he did indeed throw down his scar-headed enemy. Laugh. Yes, laughing victoriously would be the first thing to happen. Laughing right in that Potters defeated face. The spotlight would leave the untidy haired Gryffindor and shine brightly down on him. Just him, all of him. Potter would be left in the bitter darkness like the shoe scum he was. The lion of Gryffindor would lay defeated as the mighty serpent of Slytherin would constrict around its neck in its deadly vice grip.
For once he would be the celebrity. All those of his house would look up at him, even their eyes did not deserve to settle on the greatness that made him. His ability to leave people in awe would be sported, his charm signal beeping infernally in his mind. They would like him. They would love him. Hell, they would even want to be him. But they can't, Draco said to himself. There was only one Malfoy and that was him. No one could repeat nor come close to his glory and splendor. Placing a hand on his slender hips, he arched an eyebrow at his reflection. Yes, he looked good. But then again, he always looked good. Another reason why no one else was Draco Malfoy. So call him proud, but he knew that girls fancied him. He was a regular magnet while strutting down the halls of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He drew their eyes to him like a bee on a flower. Running a casual hand through his hair, he studied himself once more. He had the silver blond hair from his father, but he had his mother's icy eyes. It seemed as though the eyes was the only thing that she delivered to him. Oh well, he thought to himself idly.
Draco looked back at his locker for a moment and then pulled out his family heirloom. It was a gold ring, the crest of Malfoy carved into the black of the stone. His father had given it to him only that year, believing that he was ready for it to be passed down. The ring was a tad too big for his finger but it would have to do. Slipping it onto his Quiditch-callused middle finger; he brought his hand up to the light to gaze at it. Quite truthfully he did not want the ring. It reminded him once more of why he was in the world. He was not in the world to exist. He only was there to continue the line of blood. But he also felt quite proud to be bearing the ring. It meant that his father thought he was ready. Perhaps his father did accept him.
"Malfoy, you almost ready?" Came a voice. Draco turned from the mirror to see Blaise Zabini, the captain of the Quiditch team. Blaise leaned halfway out the door, her eyes slightly narrowed as she saw Draco gloating in front of the mirror. Turning around to face the captain, he narrowed his eyes as well. He was in no mood to get a lecture from her. He knew very well what his priorities were during the game. Unlike Crabbe and Goyle, he actually had a properly working brain inside of his skull. Grabbing his nimbus two thousand and one, he hefted it onto his shoulder, tossing his head back defiantly.
"Now see here, Malfoy. I don't think it's appropriate to have to remind you that you are to catch the snitch. The idea is to not let that Potter get it." Blaise started, saying each word slowly as if she was speaking to some inferior child. As if he was some sort of thickheaded git. Who does she think I am? Crabbe and Goyle? Glaring deeply, Draco replied,
"I know very well what to do, Zabini." Draco snapped, furiously brushing past her, shoulders knocking. Straightening his back, he swaggered past the other fellow players on the team. He could feel their eyes. It was like this uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck. Let them think what they wanted. He could almost feel the doubt rising in the air like a hovering cloud. The air was so thick, he could definitely smell it. Crisp, the air was crisp and about to be filled with flying Quiditch players. Spotting Crabbe and Goyle, he made his way over to them. They were trying to hit each other with their beater bats like the moronic goons they were. As he stood there waiting to fly, he silently thanked Merlin that his father no longer came to any of the Quiditch matches. The goal of his life was to finally please his father but he found that rather hard when always playing the part of the loser during Quiditch. He could not deal with the shame in his father's steely, cold eyes. It was shame like that, that anchored him to the stone wall like a prisoner held by chains. Wounds reopened and pain filled his being as he remembered the night after his very first game in his second year. He had left the hospital wing, his brand new broomstick streaked with mud. His new broom had been caught after narrowly missing a bludger, sending him flying through the air to land on his bum.
He could remember the way they all crowded around Potters bed. They cared for him, they wondered if he was alright. They all loved him like the celebrity he was. His fellow Slytherin players could only watch him with pity. He knew what was to come. His father had watched it all. Now as he made his way out of the hospital wing alone, he walked glumly down the stairs to the dungeons. It was then that he halted. Footsteps sounded in the distance. Footsteps along with the sound of a staff hitting on the ground as they walked. A staff with a serpent's head perched menacingly atop. A staff that could only belong to one person. Draco watched transfixed, frozen in cold fear as his Father slowly approached him. His white hair glowed like ethereal light, his tall form cloaked in heavy darkness. Even from a distance he could see the deep shame and disappointment plastered along his face, his cheekbones tightened with grit teeth. That face, that expression. He loathed and dreaded it. One day, he would be the very mirror of the man approaching him.
"Hello, Father..." Draco whispered, shamed from the distinct fear trembling in his voice. Looking down, he realized his fingers were shaking almost violently. Were fathers supposed to provoke such fear in their own flesh and blood? But somehow he a very good reason to fear this man, this death eater. Loss was something not greatly appreciated in his line of family. He had lost. He had lost to Potter in his first Quiditch match. And now he would pay. He would pay dearly. Malfoys did not loose. They never lost; there was only victory among purebloods. He had just brought shame to his family name; he brought shame to the house of Slytherin. Draco knew he deserved what was coming to him. He deserved to be punished.
"Look at me while you are speaking, Draco," Said the cold voice. Very slowly he raised his chin, determined to show the sheer defiance in his eyes. Defiance was something his father actually admired in him. He would show him that he was not weak, he was strong, emotionless. The protest in his eyes wavered for a moment before crashing into a million pieces like the shattering of a glass mirror. Each small shard of defiance slowly diminished like a cloud of smoke. Any hope of admiration was gone. There was a moments silence before Lucius spoke.
"You have lost, dear boy..." Lucius whispered, his eyes piercing his, making the young boy feel like a deer caught in headlights. Their eyes simply watched each other for a moment before a crack rung out through the darkly lit corridor. The father of the young Malfoy had his gloved hand still raised in an arch of the air. Draco let out a shivering breath, his hand clutching his red cheek. His pale skin was marred with a flushed pink, burning like a blush. Yes, but he deserved it. He deserved every last blow. He wanted the shame to be struck out of him. He did not want to be weak. He wanted to be like his Father. Only then would he be happy. Only then would his father might actually be proud of him.
"That, Draco, is what failure feels like. Look me in the eye while I speak!" Lucius bellowed, his hand coming in contact with his son's again. Draco bared his teeth, fighting against the stinging in his skin. This is what he wanted. Squeezing his eyes shut, he straightened his back like a board and held his head erect. Ignore the pain, ignore it, he told himself. You aren't weak. You aren't feeling this. There is no such thing as pain. Father told you pain is inhumane, foolish. Only something for mudbloods like Granger.
"You fancy being weak? Do you like pain?!" He barked, his serpent staff clamoring to the stone floor as his free hand came up to strike his twelve year old again. Fighting the whimper deep in his throat, he could feel the pain from every finger of his Fathers hand as he continuously hit his face. This was indeed what failure felt like. He did not like it. He did not like it at all. Silence filled the corridor once more as Lucius stopped his beating, and flipped his hair over his shoulder, adjusting his robes quite casually. He looked down at his son with disgrace as tears streamed down the contours of his pale cheeks. Leaning over, father Malfoy roughly took his son's chin in his hand. Draco went rigid under his touch and looked into his eyes. Show him you're not in pain. Show him you're strong. Lucius used the tip of his thumb to brush the tears away, his lips pursed angrily. He then looked at his fingers, examining the tears he had brushed from his son's face in disgust as if it were blood.
"You are never to cry again. Is that clear?" He said to Draco, his eyes smoldering with cruel fire. You are disgusting, Draco, he mentally told himself. The last time he had actually cried was years ago and while not in anyone's company. Now he had shown tears of humiliation, tears of pain. But what were tears anyway? Were tears the faucets in which our pain is released from our bodies? But how could he feel pain. He was taught never to feel that certain emotion. But that mirror of defiance quickly rebuilt itself. Forming like a fog amidst his eyes.
"Yes, sir!" He bellowed, his eyes wide. Lucius gave him one left penetrating glance before roughly brushing past him, his black cloak billowing out. Draco did not even turn to see him leave; he only let out a shuddering breath while willing himself not to collapse to the floor. His cheeks were in brutal fire and the last of his tears fell from his stone gray eyes. Anger, pure loathing filled his being as he held his red cheeks. Him. He was his father and that's how he was treated. No love, no compassion. Nothing! To Lucius Malfoy, he was only the one who would carry on being in Voldemorts inner circle once he passed. He was only there to exist. To become him... Growling as he turned toward the corridor where his father had left through minutes ago, he screamed. Such malevolence shone brightly in his eyes that it could have made Voldemort burst into tears.
"I hate you, Father! I hate you! I hate you all!!!! And, I hate you Harry Potter!"
He screamed this, his voice trembling in abandoned fury. These horrid words of vile loathing escaped his thin white lips, anger cracking the corners of his mouth. Never had he felt such bitter hatred. It ran through him, all the way down the very tips of his toes. It rolled throughout his very veins. This was all Potters fault. If Potter hadn't caught the snitch then he would never even have deserved this. It was Potters fault! His entire fault! He hated him! He wanted him to suffer! He wanted Harry Potter to die. He wanted Harry Potter to rot at the end of Voldemorts wand. Only would he be happy when Harry Potter was dead...
Seventh year Draco Malfoy came tumbling out of the memory as someone clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. Blinking a few times, snapping back to reality, he turned to see Goyle motioning to the Quiditch field. Ah yes, the game. The game he was dreading. But renewed energy pumped sharply through his pure-wizarding blood. The memory from second year reminded him of how much indeed he wanted Harry Potter to suffer most horribly. Pushing the memory of his Fathers disgrace filled eyes; he picked up his broomstick and followed his fellow players onto the pitch. Mounting his nimbus two thousand and one, he flew out from the locker rooms.
Sunlight spilled into his eyes as he soared through the air, his green robes fanning out in the wind. Winters chill crept down his spine and ice wind nipped at his face and hands. A rushing sensation filled his body as the roar from the crowd came to his ears. Banners of green, blue, yellow and the loathed color red flashed in the air. Already, the Gryffindor players were zooming through the air. Scowling so deeply that wrinkles formed on his pale face, Draco tightened his grip on his broomstick. He flew near the top of the pitch to be aligned with his fellow players while the Quiditch captains shook hands. Both Harry and he caught each others eyes and glares were shared. You're going down, Potter. I swear it, he thought to himself ominously. The snitch would be his.
Madam Hooch slowly walked onto the field, her black and white robes billowing out at her feet. She looked up at all of them carefully from under her massive wind goggles. In one hand she daintily held her Quiditch Whistle. Each eye of the flying eyes watched her intently, waiting for her to release the balls from the wooden trunk. Each ball in that trunk was of great importance to certain players.
"I want a clean game!" Madam Hooch bellowed from below them. She leaned down and grasped the quaffle. He could see the chasers of both teams slightly lean over on their broomsticks, their eyes never leaving the ball held by the Quiditch referee. Their fingers no doubt itched to grab at the main ball.
"Today's game is Slytherin versus Gryffindor!" Boomed the voice of Seamus Finnigan, who in his sixth year had taken over for Lee Jordan. The Gryffindor was sitting next to professor McGonagall who was watching his suspiciously for any biased comments he might have picked up from their former announcer. Draco watching intently for when Hooch threw up the quaffle. Wind ran through his hair like a sharp knife, stinging his frozen cheeks. By the deep gray of the endless sky, it looked as if it might snow any minute. That was the last thing he needed. A roar from the surrounding crowd shattered his thoughts, telling him that the game had begun. Flashes of color zoomed past him as he made for the top of the field to watch for the miniscule golden snitch. Harry soared close by, his eyes ever observant. He was nearly lying across the top of his broom, his head twisting back and forth to seek the same treasure he himself sought.
"The game begins as Madam Hooch releases the quaffle! And what a game it will be!" He bellowed, his eyes wide. Yes, what a game it would be. Who would walk away the victor? Who would be burdened with the weights of failure? Whose nimble fingers would grasp that sneaky snitch first? Slytherin or Gryffindor. The battle of favorites had already been won as the players zoomed over the pitch. Gryffindor clearly gained the support of all houses over the years.
Draco tuned the voice of the commentator out as his eyes ravaged the field. Where was that sneaky little blighter? The snitch had to be somewhere. He had to get it. It was his. He could not let Potter get it. Not again... His silver, blond hair gently brushed against his temples as green and red clad Quiditch players flew past him. The main ball was already in possession and the bludgers soared like wasps across the field, ready to sting.
"Dean Thomas has the quaffle! Go get 'em, Dean! You beat those nasty Slytherins!" Seamus could only manage a sheepish shrug to Snape who threw him a rather dirty look. Those biased remarks were already bubbling heatedly in Seamus's chest. The crowd was erupting with cheers for their favorite teams. Mostly Gryffindor, Draco noted to himself silently. Team spirit lingered in the air, you could almost smell it. Such a sweet smell it was to those who bore an air of excitement. But it left a bitter taste in a certain seekers mouth.
"Quaffle to Bulstrode! Quaffle intercepted by Ginny Weasley! A great chaser, that one! Wait! Crabbe nearly knocked the lights out of Weasley with a bludger! Quaffle to Zabini!"
The quaffle soared through the air toward one of the three towering hoops as Blaise Zabini aimed for a victory. But Ron was their first; catching the ball and hurling it back toward his fellow players. Draco's eyes locked on Ron's for a moment. Scowling loathingly, he turned his head back to the action below him. He could feel the Weasley shooting withering death glares in his direction but chose to ignore it. The snitch was his main priority. His only priority. Certainly not that filthy scum Potter. But he could not let him win again. He wanted to win, and only him.
"Great Scott! That fat lubber, Goyle, just nearly knocked Netta Rolf off her broom! A sneaky- Oi! Sorry professor! No need to become violent." Professor Mcgongall sat back down on the bench, her wand still in hand after whacking Seamus on the head. Lee Jordan would have evidently been proud. The crowds of Slytherin howled in disappointment as Ginny Weasley belted the quaffle through the Slytherin Hoops. Blaise Zabini soared past her roughly, muttering curses under her breath. The stand of Gryffindor were on their feet, waving their banners madly. Draco spat in disgust as he silently wished that each and every member of team clothed in red would somehow fall off their brooms. Some start for the house of the serpent.
"Quaffle to Rolf, who dives around Bulstrode! A nice dive that was, Rolf! - Wait! Quaffle gained by Slytherin chaser Morag Mcdougal! He's flying like an eagle up there! Not much action yet for the two seekers Draco Malfoy and the fabulous Harry Potter! Rolf back in possession of the quaffle - dodges a bludger - almost there! - And. NO!" Bellowed Seamus. Millicent Bulstrode pelted the quaffle out from under Netta Rolf's arm and was heading back toward the Gryffindor Posts. Even from a distance, Draco could hear Pansy screaming above the rest of her classmates. Like a wolf howling up at the moon. Yes, there was certainly blood of a hound, no doubt, running through her veins. Harry was circling the pitch, impatiently wondering where the speck of gold was. It certainly was hiding, he noticed.
Draco let out a laugh of glee as his team finally scored, Ron glowering fiercely. His laughter, however, was short lived as he spotted Harry making a nose dive toward the pitch. Yes, this was it! Tilting the head of his broom down, he sped forward. The golden snitch had been spotted! In a matter of minutes, Malfoy was neck to neck with Harry whose arm was outstretched.
"One side, Potter!" Draco screamed, elbowing Harry as he soared next to him. Harry grunted and glared, but nonetheless did not take his eyes off the tiny golden ball fluttering away in the distance. The snitch was what they sought. It was the treasure that would lead one of their teams into a shining victory, once step closer to the much desired Quiditch cup. Green robes mingled bitterly with red robes. Screams of encouragement came from the crowds as the scene that took place was registered and digested.
"Would you look at that! The snitch has been sighted and our two seekers are neck to neck trying to catch that little bugger! Meanwhile, the score is currently Gryffindor leading Slytherin with thirty to twenty!" Gryffindor had the lead for now, but would that last? In the end, would Slytherin rein with the halos of victory, the serpent spinning itself around them? Draco found that he could only think about not only the snitch not too far in front of him, but also how much he wanted Harry to not get it. It's mine. It must be mine, he thought to himself, his mouth frowning deeply in concentration. He could see Harry's jet bet black hair in the corner of his eye, contrasting so remarkably with the glow of his white blond locks.
"Just look at those two! Malfoy surely looks evil, doesn't he?! A devious little -"
"FINNIGAN!" Growled Professor McGonagall.
"Just telling the truth, Professor," Muttered Seamus, avoiding the daggers in his transfiguration teacher's eyes. "Ginny Weasley flying like a comet up there! She's got the quaffle - and GRYFFINDOR SCORES! She certainly scored that one! Oh no! Zabini is in possession of the quaffle - gets loose of Thomas and leads Denis Creevey on a chase! She side flies Weasley and scores a goal for Slytherin!" Ron was silently throwing a fit, flying almost wildly in front of his hoops.
Meanwhile, the snitch was leading the two seekers on a thrilling and bewildering chase. It zoomed to the left, then the right. Both Harry and Draco continued to chase it like a pair of cats on one mouse. The Slytherin was well aware of the dull pain filling his arm as he continued to hold his hand out, ever grasping air. Harry was slightly bearing his teeth, his fingers twitching to find the snitch.
"It's going to be mine, scar head." He growled, turning sharply to look at Harry. The only reply he got was a fierce glare and the sight of his scar. That very scar was the bane of his existence. It was that scar that reminded him that Harry Potter was somehow better than him. With great brutality, mixed in a haze with hate, Draco elbowed Harry again. He wanted the seventh year Gryffindor to feel pain. He wanted him to feel what pain was. No one could understand what it was to feel the hand of your kin beat you. No one could understand that there was nothing in the world that he wanted more then to gain respect from his father. He wanted Lucius Malfoy to be proud of the son he had brought up. The son and man he created. The monster he created...
Such an adrenaline filled his veins that he could feel the blood rushing to his head as both he and Potter raced in unison into a deep dive. The snitch was continuing them on a merry chase, daring them to give up or die trying. They were hurtling toward the ground. Deeper and deeper they dived. The audience held their breaths hitched in their breaths like a fish caught in a net. Not a soul dared look away as the two seekers continued to come closer to the ground. Who would rise out of the dive first? Would someone willingly hit the ground at such a speed just to catch the tiny, golden snitch? A well known, bushy haired prefect clutched her chest, her eyes following the two fellow seventh years. Her heart was beating frantically, the very beat sounding like a gallop through her blood. She could hear nothing; she could not focus on anything but the two streaks of red and green. Dear Merlin, she unconsciously whispered under her breath.
"Pull up... Dear god, pull up..." She murmured. Hermione's prayers were answered as the snitch fluttered up from its dive and high into the air again. A hush of relief swept across the stands like a wave and Seamus Finnigan let out a loud whoop. Hermione fell back in her seat, willing herself to breathe and forcing some energy into her body so that she could scold Harry for being so daring just then. Harry and Draco strained from their deep angle and were now soaring amongst their teammates again.
"A bloody close one! I reckon that move will go into Quiditch for all ages! Ruddy wicked, that was! Now back to the game that seems to have been put on hold. Ginny Weasley had just gained the quaffle, Morag Mcdougal is tailing her like a leprechaun on gold. He kinda looks like one if I do say so myself..."
"I'm warning you, Finnigan!" Barked McGonagall.
"Sorry, Professor! The snitch had flown out of site for our two seekers and Weasley still has the quaffle. Ouch! That's going to hurt tomorrow! Beaters Crabbe and Goyle have just pelted a bludger at our favorite beater, Colin Creevey. That was most disgusting foreplay. Nasty business, Quiditch is. Zabini in possession of the quaffle - she sidetracks - Oh wait! Dean Thomas has the quaffle - he makes for the hoops - Oh no! Bulstrode is getting rough and has knocked the quaffle away, - Merlin's beard! A great save by our own Ron Weasley. You are indeed the king who does not let the quaffle in!," The roars of the crowd were now being joined with old choruses of 'Weasley is our king'. The Slytherin's booed and hissed as the stands around them took light of their song and edited it for their own using.
"Yes! What a comeback! Colin Creevey has just gotten that great, big blob of lard people call Crabbe! Oi! Alright, I won't call any of the team members a big blob of lard anymore, professor McGonagall. But anyway! Colin's swinging that bat like a madman, pelting bludgers left and right. Thomas and Denis Creevey are guarding Weasley who's got the quaffle again - just a bit closer - Wait, that sod Zabini has got it - wait!- no! - wait again! Rolf is flying like a threstal! Hmm... By the look on her face, it seems she does not like being compared to a threstal. Sorry, luv!"
Netta Rolf threw the ball through one of the three, great hoops, raised a fist of victory and the ring of a score wavered in the air. The Gryffindors were stamping their feet along with the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws whilst the Slytherins spat at the field.
"GRYFFINDOR SCORES AGAIN! Look! It's the snitch and it seems Draco Malfoy is already on it! Go get that ruddy git, Harry!" Seamus Finnigan could only let out muffled cheers as Professor Snape stood while attempting to get the biased announcer out of the box. Professor Dumbledore, who sat nearby, could only chuckle softly while watching the game over his half-moon spectacles.
Draco Malfoy could hear nothing but the wind in his ears as he soared through the air, excitement pumping through him in spasms. He had gotten the head start on the snitch. Now it would be his. Only his. Victory would be held by not Harry Potter... But by Draco Malfoy. The first thing he would do after the match was right a letter to his father telling him all about how he caught the snitch and how Potter fell off his broom and landed himself in the hospital wing. A bit tweaking of a good story couldn't hurt. His pale, numb from the cold finger were outstretched, the golden ball fluttering almost carefree a few feet away from his. Draco licked his lips, hungry from the elation passing over him. Almost there... Just a bit farther and it's yours. You could almost taste the gold metal of that dodgy snitch. He lay nearly horizontal across his broomstick, stretching his arm as far as he could go. His Quiditch robbers were flapping like rippling flags behind him. Uttering a cry as he felt his fingers at last touch a buzzing wing, he was about to declare himself the winner. The Slytherin stands were howling in excitement. For once, Slytherin would win! For once, Gryffindor would be the defeated. I have got it, he said to himself.
But a sudden sharp pain in his ribs made him turn to see Potter elbowing him in the stomach while he himself was grasping for his trophy. No, it would not end this way. He would not let him take the spotlight again. Don't concentrate on Potter, you fool! His conscious screamed. But his conscious was soon blocked out but a dull roar from the crowds, slowly becoming louder.
"Go get it, Potter! Go get it, Potter!" The crowd was chanting. Draco could only see darkness as the words thundered around him. They were not cheering for him. They did not want him to win. They wanted the great Harry Potter that they all loved to win. Draco Malfoy was to be left in the dust again. His icy gray eyes were clouded as the leather clad fingers touching the snitch grasped air. The students of Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry continued to scream and shout. The chant rose louder and louder until it echoed throughout the field like a burst of song. The next thing he knew, Harry was soaring high into the air again, holding up the golden snitch.
He had lost...
Again...
"HARRY POTTER HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH!!!! GRYFFINDOR WINS!! And what a game it was!! Gryffindor has beaten those dirty, rotten tarts! You stink, Slytherin!!" Seamus was screaming, Snape nearly throwing the student over his shoulder to haul him out of the box. The house of the lion was screaming in victory, flying excited loops around Harry who had descended off his broomstick. The snitch was fluttering madly in his hand, the wings peaking in through his fingers. Ron had landed and was slapping the boy who lived heartily on the back. Ginny had nearly thrown herself into his arms and gave a very surprised Harry a great big kiss on the cheek.
"Victory is ours!" Collin Creevey bellowed, pumping a shaking fist in the air whilst his other hand clutched his bleeding nose. Denis Creevey had somehow attained his older brother's camera and was flashing away at his other teammates. Hermione had run from the stands, a grin playing on her lips as she made her way toward her friends. The stands were on their feet, waving their banners wildly as if they had just won a war. They had won. They had beaten the Slytherins again. Running fast, her brown curls bouncing, she hugged Harry congratulating him on another win and then hugged Ron. He was keeping her close, his red hair seemingly glowing. Hermione buried her face into his shoulder but froze when she felt a pair of cold eyes stare at her. Opening her eyes and looking over Ron's shoulder, she could see the form of Draco Malfoy walking by, his eyes so hard and cold that he could send her to the hospital wing petrified. The prefect stiffened as their eyes met. If looks could kill, she would most certainly be dead by now. An intense, dark aura seemed to haze around his body like poison. A split image of Lucius Malfoy flashed ominously before her orbs. The Weasley keeper sensed her discomfort and turned to see who was behind him. Hermione felt Ron's grip around her slightly tighten as the two boy's glared loathing at one another. Not again, she thought to herself. The prefect badge on her chest seemed to be buzzing a warning through her skin like a distant prickling. It told her she should break up the fight before it even began. But her fiery best friend seemed to have plans of his own.
"Sod off, Malfoy." Ron growled. Draco sneered; silently wishing the killing curse was not illegal. He had lost and he was not happy. He was not happy at all. Harry had been promoted to the winners circle once more, while he was left in the dark. Fire flamed in his ice eyes, wishing to melt anyone who dared approach him now. The wand in his robes was itching to use the cruciatus curse. Any sort of pain he could afflict on that Weasley would pleasure him enough to forget about his loss on the field.
"Or what, Weasley-king?" He asked, crossing his arms over his lithe chest. That's right, I dare you, he silently said. Harry was now at Ron and Hermione's side, his lips pursed in a deep frown. Always there for his friends, the great Harry Potter. The savior of the wizarding world and defender against the weak. It made him utterly ill. How he hated the heroes. It was the heroes that should meet an ugly, untimely end.
"Why don't you just bugger off? Everyone knows you're just jealous that Harry has beaten you again." Ron quipped. For a moment, fire splintered before his very eyes, smoldering over each and every form that faced him. Such hatred, such malevolence. Detrimental desire ran through his veins causing his blood to boil like lava in a volcano. Never had he wanted to hurt the Weasley more then he did now. It was more that Ron was truthful that sent his senses ablaze. The truth hurt, it always does when it's not in you're favor. The very truth of his jealousy seemed to have taken its own form and was laughing at him. The bones in Draco's fists cracked as his hands trembled into balls. Hermione was watching him silently, her cinnamon eyes suddenly annoying him. The annoyance just came out of nowhere in particular, but it made him want to hurt her all the more.
"You'll have to come up and buy better insults, but then again... This is a Weasley I'm talking to after all." Draco countered. An unappreciative murmur ran over the Gryffindor Quiditch players who stood behind Harry. Ginny looked like she wanted to pounce and Ron had fire bursting from his ears. Hermione was clutching his arm, telling him not to do something he might regret. But, she then turned to him, her eyes hard.
"You're just being sore, Malfoy. Why don't you use all that energy you spend ruining other people's lives to practice your seeking skills. Then you might actually catch the snitch for once in your life." Hermione replied. Snorts of laughter arose from the group and Ron jabbed Harry in the ribs with a grin. If Draco thought he had been angry with the truth of Ron's words, then it was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. Pure anger and hatred was mixed with a swell of admiration. The Slytherin's brows met each other, his mouth forming a snarl. No one talked to him like that and got away from it. Especially not a lowly, scum like mudblood Granger.
"Was I talking to you, Mudblood? Did I ask for you to intervene? But yes, I guess it comes naturally that you have to defend your thick, tosser of a boyfriend. My Father always said that the Weasleys were a dirty, defenseless lot. Almost as dirty as you silt-blooded muggle-borns. " Harry stepped forward, wand out and Ron was practically gnawing at the many arms holding him back. Ginny was screaming every curse word at him, much to his satisfaction, and even Hermione looked as though her bouncy brown curls would catch on fire. The dragon of his house found that he was rather fond of the anger he provoked out of people. Both satisfying and amusing.
"Moody might not be here, but if you're not careful, then we might just have to turn you back into a ferret, Malfoy. But then again, there wasn't that much of a difference in appearance to begin with." Harry growled, his wand shaking slightly in his hand. Draco smirked and crossed his arms, ignoring the laughter hurled at him. They could laugh at him all they wanted. In the end he knew they would all get what they deserved. Then he would be the one laughing.
"Oh, Touché, Potter..."
"Can we please end this moronic argument? McGonagall might see us and -!" Hermione was saying, her eyes searching every corner of the emptying Quiditch field. Draco sniggered under his breath and interrupted.
"What? Are you scared, Granger? Are you scared that McGonagall will take away your little prefect badge? Are you scared she might not think you're that annoying, prissy book worm that you are?" Draco taunted, his voice laden with a sneer. Hermione took a rather bold step closer to him. He made a look of distain, not wanting to be within a foot of her and her mudblood germs.
"Now see here, Malfoy! Just because you're a rotten-!" Hermione did not get to finish her insult for beater Colin Creevey, who had been wrestling one of the dodgy bludgers into the trunk, had suddenly cried out. All heads turned to the source of the yell.
"Look out! Rogue Bludger!" Colin screamed his eyes wide. Before anyone could process what was truly happening, the bludger was flying. Flying right for the group of Quiditch players. It flew like an arrow making its way toward the bull's eye. They saw it; it seemed to move in slow motion. Fear filled the eyes of each student that stood there. Each limb seemed to have been suspended and frozen in the air as the feisty little ball cackled and whizzed, wanting nothing more then to make contact. Who would it hit? Who would be the first to spill blood? Screams and gasps filled the air as the bludger soared by. But a deafening silence wavered when a yell of pain ripped through the air. All eyes turned to the immobile Slytherin as he stood there, his eyes wide, unseeing. Darkness clouded his eyes, his iris disappearing. For once, there was no malice in his eyes. No threat, no malevolence. There was nothing in his eyes. The small brown ball went unmoving from where it seemed impaled in his chest. With a whistle, it fell to the ground dead.
Hermione Granger watched, transfixed, as the bludger fell to the ground, as it had finally had its goal completed. It had picked its target and attacked. Draco Malfoy stood still, his body trembling violently, his mouth opened in a silent scream as pain tore through his very being. The bludger lay at his feet after coming in contact with his chest. He could not breathe, he could not think. There was nothing but pain. Pain was all that existed. Harry and Ron watched, frozen as he released a strangled gasp and seemingly in slow motion, fell...
In a crumpled heap, the seeker of Slytherin lay. A stray lock of platinum hair fell in his eyes and his dark lashes stroked against his pale cheeks. He lay there in the green grass unconscious, frozen in the sensation of paralysis. In the next moment, the Gryffindor team had surrounded him, whispering fearfully to each other. Hermione kneeled down next to him, a strange sense of worry filling her heart. He had gotten what he deserved, did he not? But she was not prepared for the desolation she saw in his icy orbs when the bludger came into bitter contact with his helpless body. Was he ok? How badly was he hurt? Harry had run off to get help and the remaining people in the stands were pointing down where Draco lay. Turning back to the unconscious boy, she leaned forward and put a tentative, hesitant hand to the Slytherin's neck. His skin was ice and that startled her for a moment. Taking in a quaking breath, she checked for his pulse. It beat slow, and dull. Ron was kneeling next to him, his eyebrows drawn together.
"I can't say I like the rotten bugger, but is he alright?" Ron asked. Hermione looked up at him, her eyes troubled. They needed Madam Pomfrey, and they needed her now.
"I'm not sure. The bludger hit him right on. It might have hurt one of his lungs since it rammed into his chest." Hermione said, staring down at Draco. There was something very strange about the way he looked. The usual Malfoy swaggered about, his eyes cold and mixed in a whirlwind of hate and defiance. Now he lay there, defeated in body and soul. It reminded her of a small, peaceful child who was sleeping. The only thing that could tell anyone that he was feeling discomfort was the deep frown frozen on his lips. His green clad chest rose and fell very slowly. Too slowly... While whispers filled the air around her, the prefect could not help but study him. He was a tall boy, lithe and broad shouldered. He was long legged and had silver blond hair with a pointed face and sharp cheekbones. Under the long layer of eyelashes were frozen eyes. Eyes that showed the smug bastard that everyone knew he was. Hermione felt a tad disturbed to find that she was almost pleased at once more seeing the bane of her existence suffering and showing true helplessness. It reminded her that he was indeed human like she was.
"Out of my way!" Yelled a familiar voice. Whipping around, Hermione and Ron looked to see Madam Pomfrey stalking toward them. Professor McGonagall and Snape were following closely behind. Standing up away from the blond seeker with relief, she watched as the school medi-witch kneeled down by Draco, a worried expression across her face. Would he be alright? Harry joined them, watching his arch rival with an unreadable expression. It seemed that Draco's helplessness put a hold on the hate they all felt for him. Until he was better, a cloud of neutrality floated above their heads. The war was dormant for then.
Madam Pomfrey was waving her wand over his chest, pursing her lips tightly. Professor Snape was kneeling down on the other side of Draco, quickly removing the leather Quiditch gloves and wrist guards. McGonagall was trying to lead the remaining students away from the scene. It seemed even the professors knew that Draco would not want any of his fellow students seeing him hurt. It would taint his dignity.
"Madam Pomfrey, will he be alright?" Asked Hermione.
"I am not too sure, Ms. Granger... I think the force of the hit may have punctured one of his lungs," Said the nurse. Eyes widened and whispers were shared hastily. Before anyone could speak, Draco had been lifted on a floating stretcher and was being lead back toward the castle. As he was lifted in the air, his arm fell limply at his side and something gold slipped off his finger. Watching the retreating forms of the professors and the remaining students, Hermione approached the patch of grass where the ring lay. It glittered brightly in the sunlight, but there was something about the piece of jewelry that she did not like or fathom. It was only until she bent to pick it up that she realized why she did not like it. The crest of the Malfoy family was carved into a glassy black stone. Fingering it, the gold seemed to burn in her hands. Snarling, the prefect felt the strong urge to throw it back down onto the ground, step on it, and then melt it with her wand. But it was not hers, nor her decision what was to be done with it. Hesitantly, she placed it into her pocket and decided to pay Malfoy a visit later to return it to him.
Harry and Ron were talking quietly to each other a short distance away for her. The victory of their house went forgotten as talk about what had just happened came about. It was then that Hermione realized that no Slytherin students had been on the field since the game. They seemingly disappeared after the snitches capture by Harry. That lot is probably off sulking their loss, she whispered to herself. Some team they were to not hang around long enough to watch their team mate fall and be in need of aid, possibly some care. Pansy would no doubt give it to him, unless of course she herself felt embarrassed by Draco's loss of victory. That thought alone brought the Gryffindor prefect to the conclusion that not one Slytherin had a heart. Malfoy had given them not a reason to care but that did not stop even her own house mates from calling for help. A bitter taste formed in her mouth. The house of the serpent truly disgusted her.
"Hey, 'Mione! Come on, it's chilly out here. Let's go inside before we freeze our arse's off." Ron called. Hermione gazed at the doorway that Malfoy had been taken into only ten minutes ago. Never would she forget the sight of him defeated. It had been added to her many memorable times at Hogwarts. Her hand closed around the ring in her robe pocket, wind tearing through her hair, bringing the curls to brush along the sides of her face. A gentle song was lifted on through the sharp breeze, whispers floating. Sun set would not be long... Then turning away, Hermione Granger caught up with her friends.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ A/N: HEY! I hope u like that chapter! The next one will probably be up next weekend. Please review!
Namaarie
Leanna
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Looking sharp, Malfoy..." Draco Malfoys reflection seemed to have said to him, a smirk on his face. The tall blond studied his reflection in the mirror. Potions had just ended fifteen minutes ago and he had dreadfully headed down to the Quiditch field. In the locker rooms he had shed of his school robes and was now clothed in stunning green, the emblem of Slytherin flashing defiantly on his chest. Well, this was it. The match he had been dreading with utter hate for the past few days. Very soon he would be soaring through the air, the wind ripping through his smooth, platinum hair, his team robes billowing out like a flag. Today, maybe just today victory might actually be his. With a sneer, he could imagine what would happen if he did indeed throw down his scar-headed enemy. Laugh. Yes, laughing victoriously would be the first thing to happen. Laughing right in that Potters defeated face. The spotlight would leave the untidy haired Gryffindor and shine brightly down on him. Just him, all of him. Potter would be left in the bitter darkness like the shoe scum he was. The lion of Gryffindor would lay defeated as the mighty serpent of Slytherin would constrict around its neck in its deadly vice grip.
For once he would be the celebrity. All those of his house would look up at him, even their eyes did not deserve to settle on the greatness that made him. His ability to leave people in awe would be sported, his charm signal beeping infernally in his mind. They would like him. They would love him. Hell, they would even want to be him. But they can't, Draco said to himself. There was only one Malfoy and that was him. No one could repeat nor come close to his glory and splendor. Placing a hand on his slender hips, he arched an eyebrow at his reflection. Yes, he looked good. But then again, he always looked good. Another reason why no one else was Draco Malfoy. So call him proud, but he knew that girls fancied him. He was a regular magnet while strutting down the halls of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He drew their eyes to him like a bee on a flower. Running a casual hand through his hair, he studied himself once more. He had the silver blond hair from his father, but he had his mother's icy eyes. It seemed as though the eyes was the only thing that she delivered to him. Oh well, he thought to himself idly.
Draco looked back at his locker for a moment and then pulled out his family heirloom. It was a gold ring, the crest of Malfoy carved into the black of the stone. His father had given it to him only that year, believing that he was ready for it to be passed down. The ring was a tad too big for his finger but it would have to do. Slipping it onto his Quiditch-callused middle finger; he brought his hand up to the light to gaze at it. Quite truthfully he did not want the ring. It reminded him once more of why he was in the world. He was not in the world to exist. He only was there to continue the line of blood. But he also felt quite proud to be bearing the ring. It meant that his father thought he was ready. Perhaps his father did accept him.
"Malfoy, you almost ready?" Came a voice. Draco turned from the mirror to see Blaise Zabini, the captain of the Quiditch team. Blaise leaned halfway out the door, her eyes slightly narrowed as she saw Draco gloating in front of the mirror. Turning around to face the captain, he narrowed his eyes as well. He was in no mood to get a lecture from her. He knew very well what his priorities were during the game. Unlike Crabbe and Goyle, he actually had a properly working brain inside of his skull. Grabbing his nimbus two thousand and one, he hefted it onto his shoulder, tossing his head back defiantly.
"Now see here, Malfoy. I don't think it's appropriate to have to remind you that you are to catch the snitch. The idea is to not let that Potter get it." Blaise started, saying each word slowly as if she was speaking to some inferior child. As if he was some sort of thickheaded git. Who does she think I am? Crabbe and Goyle? Glaring deeply, Draco replied,
"I know very well what to do, Zabini." Draco snapped, furiously brushing past her, shoulders knocking. Straightening his back, he swaggered past the other fellow players on the team. He could feel their eyes. It was like this uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck. Let them think what they wanted. He could almost feel the doubt rising in the air like a hovering cloud. The air was so thick, he could definitely smell it. Crisp, the air was crisp and about to be filled with flying Quiditch players. Spotting Crabbe and Goyle, he made his way over to them. They were trying to hit each other with their beater bats like the moronic goons they were. As he stood there waiting to fly, he silently thanked Merlin that his father no longer came to any of the Quiditch matches. The goal of his life was to finally please his father but he found that rather hard when always playing the part of the loser during Quiditch. He could not deal with the shame in his father's steely, cold eyes. It was shame like that, that anchored him to the stone wall like a prisoner held by chains. Wounds reopened and pain filled his being as he remembered the night after his very first game in his second year. He had left the hospital wing, his brand new broomstick streaked with mud. His new broom had been caught after narrowly missing a bludger, sending him flying through the air to land on his bum.
He could remember the way they all crowded around Potters bed. They cared for him, they wondered if he was alright. They all loved him like the celebrity he was. His fellow Slytherin players could only watch him with pity. He knew what was to come. His father had watched it all. Now as he made his way out of the hospital wing alone, he walked glumly down the stairs to the dungeons. It was then that he halted. Footsteps sounded in the distance. Footsteps along with the sound of a staff hitting on the ground as they walked. A staff with a serpent's head perched menacingly atop. A staff that could only belong to one person. Draco watched transfixed, frozen in cold fear as his Father slowly approached him. His white hair glowed like ethereal light, his tall form cloaked in heavy darkness. Even from a distance he could see the deep shame and disappointment plastered along his face, his cheekbones tightened with grit teeth. That face, that expression. He loathed and dreaded it. One day, he would be the very mirror of the man approaching him.
"Hello, Father..." Draco whispered, shamed from the distinct fear trembling in his voice. Looking down, he realized his fingers were shaking almost violently. Were fathers supposed to provoke such fear in their own flesh and blood? But somehow he a very good reason to fear this man, this death eater. Loss was something not greatly appreciated in his line of family. He had lost. He had lost to Potter in his first Quiditch match. And now he would pay. He would pay dearly. Malfoys did not loose. They never lost; there was only victory among purebloods. He had just brought shame to his family name; he brought shame to the house of Slytherin. Draco knew he deserved what was coming to him. He deserved to be punished.
"Look at me while you are speaking, Draco," Said the cold voice. Very slowly he raised his chin, determined to show the sheer defiance in his eyes. Defiance was something his father actually admired in him. He would show him that he was not weak, he was strong, emotionless. The protest in his eyes wavered for a moment before crashing into a million pieces like the shattering of a glass mirror. Each small shard of defiance slowly diminished like a cloud of smoke. Any hope of admiration was gone. There was a moments silence before Lucius spoke.
"You have lost, dear boy..." Lucius whispered, his eyes piercing his, making the young boy feel like a deer caught in headlights. Their eyes simply watched each other for a moment before a crack rung out through the darkly lit corridor. The father of the young Malfoy had his gloved hand still raised in an arch of the air. Draco let out a shivering breath, his hand clutching his red cheek. His pale skin was marred with a flushed pink, burning like a blush. Yes, but he deserved it. He deserved every last blow. He wanted the shame to be struck out of him. He did not want to be weak. He wanted to be like his Father. Only then would he be happy. Only then would his father might actually be proud of him.
"That, Draco, is what failure feels like. Look me in the eye while I speak!" Lucius bellowed, his hand coming in contact with his son's again. Draco bared his teeth, fighting against the stinging in his skin. This is what he wanted. Squeezing his eyes shut, he straightened his back like a board and held his head erect. Ignore the pain, ignore it, he told himself. You aren't weak. You aren't feeling this. There is no such thing as pain. Father told you pain is inhumane, foolish. Only something for mudbloods like Granger.
"You fancy being weak? Do you like pain?!" He barked, his serpent staff clamoring to the stone floor as his free hand came up to strike his twelve year old again. Fighting the whimper deep in his throat, he could feel the pain from every finger of his Fathers hand as he continuously hit his face. This was indeed what failure felt like. He did not like it. He did not like it at all. Silence filled the corridor once more as Lucius stopped his beating, and flipped his hair over his shoulder, adjusting his robes quite casually. He looked down at his son with disgrace as tears streamed down the contours of his pale cheeks. Leaning over, father Malfoy roughly took his son's chin in his hand. Draco went rigid under his touch and looked into his eyes. Show him you're not in pain. Show him you're strong. Lucius used the tip of his thumb to brush the tears away, his lips pursed angrily. He then looked at his fingers, examining the tears he had brushed from his son's face in disgust as if it were blood.
"You are never to cry again. Is that clear?" He said to Draco, his eyes smoldering with cruel fire. You are disgusting, Draco, he mentally told himself. The last time he had actually cried was years ago and while not in anyone's company. Now he had shown tears of humiliation, tears of pain. But what were tears anyway? Were tears the faucets in which our pain is released from our bodies? But how could he feel pain. He was taught never to feel that certain emotion. But that mirror of defiance quickly rebuilt itself. Forming like a fog amidst his eyes.
"Yes, sir!" He bellowed, his eyes wide. Lucius gave him one left penetrating glance before roughly brushing past him, his black cloak billowing out. Draco did not even turn to see him leave; he only let out a shuddering breath while willing himself not to collapse to the floor. His cheeks were in brutal fire and the last of his tears fell from his stone gray eyes. Anger, pure loathing filled his being as he held his red cheeks. Him. He was his father and that's how he was treated. No love, no compassion. Nothing! To Lucius Malfoy, he was only the one who would carry on being in Voldemorts inner circle once he passed. He was only there to exist. To become him... Growling as he turned toward the corridor where his father had left through minutes ago, he screamed. Such malevolence shone brightly in his eyes that it could have made Voldemort burst into tears.
"I hate you, Father! I hate you! I hate you all!!!! And, I hate you Harry Potter!"
He screamed this, his voice trembling in abandoned fury. These horrid words of vile loathing escaped his thin white lips, anger cracking the corners of his mouth. Never had he felt such bitter hatred. It ran through him, all the way down the very tips of his toes. It rolled throughout his very veins. This was all Potters fault. If Potter hadn't caught the snitch then he would never even have deserved this. It was Potters fault! His entire fault! He hated him! He wanted him to suffer! He wanted Harry Potter to die. He wanted Harry Potter to rot at the end of Voldemorts wand. Only would he be happy when Harry Potter was dead...
Seventh year Draco Malfoy came tumbling out of the memory as someone clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. Blinking a few times, snapping back to reality, he turned to see Goyle motioning to the Quiditch field. Ah yes, the game. The game he was dreading. But renewed energy pumped sharply through his pure-wizarding blood. The memory from second year reminded him of how much indeed he wanted Harry Potter to suffer most horribly. Pushing the memory of his Fathers disgrace filled eyes; he picked up his broomstick and followed his fellow players onto the pitch. Mounting his nimbus two thousand and one, he flew out from the locker rooms.
Sunlight spilled into his eyes as he soared through the air, his green robes fanning out in the wind. Winters chill crept down his spine and ice wind nipped at his face and hands. A rushing sensation filled his body as the roar from the crowd came to his ears. Banners of green, blue, yellow and the loathed color red flashed in the air. Already, the Gryffindor players were zooming through the air. Scowling so deeply that wrinkles formed on his pale face, Draco tightened his grip on his broomstick. He flew near the top of the pitch to be aligned with his fellow players while the Quiditch captains shook hands. Both Harry and he caught each others eyes and glares were shared. You're going down, Potter. I swear it, he thought to himself ominously. The snitch would be his.
Madam Hooch slowly walked onto the field, her black and white robes billowing out at her feet. She looked up at all of them carefully from under her massive wind goggles. In one hand she daintily held her Quiditch Whistle. Each eye of the flying eyes watched her intently, waiting for her to release the balls from the wooden trunk. Each ball in that trunk was of great importance to certain players.
"I want a clean game!" Madam Hooch bellowed from below them. She leaned down and grasped the quaffle. He could see the chasers of both teams slightly lean over on their broomsticks, their eyes never leaving the ball held by the Quiditch referee. Their fingers no doubt itched to grab at the main ball.
"Today's game is Slytherin versus Gryffindor!" Boomed the voice of Seamus Finnigan, who in his sixth year had taken over for Lee Jordan. The Gryffindor was sitting next to professor McGonagall who was watching his suspiciously for any biased comments he might have picked up from their former announcer. Draco watching intently for when Hooch threw up the quaffle. Wind ran through his hair like a sharp knife, stinging his frozen cheeks. By the deep gray of the endless sky, it looked as if it might snow any minute. That was the last thing he needed. A roar from the surrounding crowd shattered his thoughts, telling him that the game had begun. Flashes of color zoomed past him as he made for the top of the field to watch for the miniscule golden snitch. Harry soared close by, his eyes ever observant. He was nearly lying across the top of his broom, his head twisting back and forth to seek the same treasure he himself sought.
"The game begins as Madam Hooch releases the quaffle! And what a game it will be!" He bellowed, his eyes wide. Yes, what a game it would be. Who would walk away the victor? Who would be burdened with the weights of failure? Whose nimble fingers would grasp that sneaky snitch first? Slytherin or Gryffindor. The battle of favorites had already been won as the players zoomed over the pitch. Gryffindor clearly gained the support of all houses over the years.
Draco tuned the voice of the commentator out as his eyes ravaged the field. Where was that sneaky little blighter? The snitch had to be somewhere. He had to get it. It was his. He could not let Potter get it. Not again... His silver, blond hair gently brushed against his temples as green and red clad Quiditch players flew past him. The main ball was already in possession and the bludgers soared like wasps across the field, ready to sting.
"Dean Thomas has the quaffle! Go get 'em, Dean! You beat those nasty Slytherins!" Seamus could only manage a sheepish shrug to Snape who threw him a rather dirty look. Those biased remarks were already bubbling heatedly in Seamus's chest. The crowd was erupting with cheers for their favorite teams. Mostly Gryffindor, Draco noted to himself silently. Team spirit lingered in the air, you could almost smell it. Such a sweet smell it was to those who bore an air of excitement. But it left a bitter taste in a certain seekers mouth.
"Quaffle to Bulstrode! Quaffle intercepted by Ginny Weasley! A great chaser, that one! Wait! Crabbe nearly knocked the lights out of Weasley with a bludger! Quaffle to Zabini!"
The quaffle soared through the air toward one of the three towering hoops as Blaise Zabini aimed for a victory. But Ron was their first; catching the ball and hurling it back toward his fellow players. Draco's eyes locked on Ron's for a moment. Scowling loathingly, he turned his head back to the action below him. He could feel the Weasley shooting withering death glares in his direction but chose to ignore it. The snitch was his main priority. His only priority. Certainly not that filthy scum Potter. But he could not let him win again. He wanted to win, and only him.
"Great Scott! That fat lubber, Goyle, just nearly knocked Netta Rolf off her broom! A sneaky- Oi! Sorry professor! No need to become violent." Professor Mcgongall sat back down on the bench, her wand still in hand after whacking Seamus on the head. Lee Jordan would have evidently been proud. The crowds of Slytherin howled in disappointment as Ginny Weasley belted the quaffle through the Slytherin Hoops. Blaise Zabini soared past her roughly, muttering curses under her breath. The stand of Gryffindor were on their feet, waving their banners madly. Draco spat in disgust as he silently wished that each and every member of team clothed in red would somehow fall off their brooms. Some start for the house of the serpent.
"Quaffle to Rolf, who dives around Bulstrode! A nice dive that was, Rolf! - Wait! Quaffle gained by Slytherin chaser Morag Mcdougal! He's flying like an eagle up there! Not much action yet for the two seekers Draco Malfoy and the fabulous Harry Potter! Rolf back in possession of the quaffle - dodges a bludger - almost there! - And. NO!" Bellowed Seamus. Millicent Bulstrode pelted the quaffle out from under Netta Rolf's arm and was heading back toward the Gryffindor Posts. Even from a distance, Draco could hear Pansy screaming above the rest of her classmates. Like a wolf howling up at the moon. Yes, there was certainly blood of a hound, no doubt, running through her veins. Harry was circling the pitch, impatiently wondering where the speck of gold was. It certainly was hiding, he noticed.
Draco let out a laugh of glee as his team finally scored, Ron glowering fiercely. His laughter, however, was short lived as he spotted Harry making a nose dive toward the pitch. Yes, this was it! Tilting the head of his broom down, he sped forward. The golden snitch had been spotted! In a matter of minutes, Malfoy was neck to neck with Harry whose arm was outstretched.
"One side, Potter!" Draco screamed, elbowing Harry as he soared next to him. Harry grunted and glared, but nonetheless did not take his eyes off the tiny golden ball fluttering away in the distance. The snitch was what they sought. It was the treasure that would lead one of their teams into a shining victory, once step closer to the much desired Quiditch cup. Green robes mingled bitterly with red robes. Screams of encouragement came from the crowds as the scene that took place was registered and digested.
"Would you look at that! The snitch has been sighted and our two seekers are neck to neck trying to catch that little bugger! Meanwhile, the score is currently Gryffindor leading Slytherin with thirty to twenty!" Gryffindor had the lead for now, but would that last? In the end, would Slytherin rein with the halos of victory, the serpent spinning itself around them? Draco found that he could only think about not only the snitch not too far in front of him, but also how much he wanted Harry to not get it. It's mine. It must be mine, he thought to himself, his mouth frowning deeply in concentration. He could see Harry's jet bet black hair in the corner of his eye, contrasting so remarkably with the glow of his white blond locks.
"Just look at those two! Malfoy surely looks evil, doesn't he?! A devious little -"
"FINNIGAN!" Growled Professor McGonagall.
"Just telling the truth, Professor," Muttered Seamus, avoiding the daggers in his transfiguration teacher's eyes. "Ginny Weasley flying like a comet up there! She's got the quaffle - and GRYFFINDOR SCORES! She certainly scored that one! Oh no! Zabini is in possession of the quaffle - gets loose of Thomas and leads Denis Creevey on a chase! She side flies Weasley and scores a goal for Slytherin!" Ron was silently throwing a fit, flying almost wildly in front of his hoops.
Meanwhile, the snitch was leading the two seekers on a thrilling and bewildering chase. It zoomed to the left, then the right. Both Harry and Draco continued to chase it like a pair of cats on one mouse. The Slytherin was well aware of the dull pain filling his arm as he continued to hold his hand out, ever grasping air. Harry was slightly bearing his teeth, his fingers twitching to find the snitch.
"It's going to be mine, scar head." He growled, turning sharply to look at Harry. The only reply he got was a fierce glare and the sight of his scar. That very scar was the bane of his existence. It was that scar that reminded him that Harry Potter was somehow better than him. With great brutality, mixed in a haze with hate, Draco elbowed Harry again. He wanted the seventh year Gryffindor to feel pain. He wanted him to feel what pain was. No one could understand what it was to feel the hand of your kin beat you. No one could understand that there was nothing in the world that he wanted more then to gain respect from his father. He wanted Lucius Malfoy to be proud of the son he had brought up. The son and man he created. The monster he created...
Such an adrenaline filled his veins that he could feel the blood rushing to his head as both he and Potter raced in unison into a deep dive. The snitch was continuing them on a merry chase, daring them to give up or die trying. They were hurtling toward the ground. Deeper and deeper they dived. The audience held their breaths hitched in their breaths like a fish caught in a net. Not a soul dared look away as the two seekers continued to come closer to the ground. Who would rise out of the dive first? Would someone willingly hit the ground at such a speed just to catch the tiny, golden snitch? A well known, bushy haired prefect clutched her chest, her eyes following the two fellow seventh years. Her heart was beating frantically, the very beat sounding like a gallop through her blood. She could hear nothing; she could not focus on anything but the two streaks of red and green. Dear Merlin, she unconsciously whispered under her breath.
"Pull up... Dear god, pull up..." She murmured. Hermione's prayers were answered as the snitch fluttered up from its dive and high into the air again. A hush of relief swept across the stands like a wave and Seamus Finnigan let out a loud whoop. Hermione fell back in her seat, willing herself to breathe and forcing some energy into her body so that she could scold Harry for being so daring just then. Harry and Draco strained from their deep angle and were now soaring amongst their teammates again.
"A bloody close one! I reckon that move will go into Quiditch for all ages! Ruddy wicked, that was! Now back to the game that seems to have been put on hold. Ginny Weasley had just gained the quaffle, Morag Mcdougal is tailing her like a leprechaun on gold. He kinda looks like one if I do say so myself..."
"I'm warning you, Finnigan!" Barked McGonagall.
"Sorry, Professor! The snitch had flown out of site for our two seekers and Weasley still has the quaffle. Ouch! That's going to hurt tomorrow! Beaters Crabbe and Goyle have just pelted a bludger at our favorite beater, Colin Creevey. That was most disgusting foreplay. Nasty business, Quiditch is. Zabini in possession of the quaffle - she sidetracks - Oh wait! Dean Thomas has the quaffle - he makes for the hoops - Oh no! Bulstrode is getting rough and has knocked the quaffle away, - Merlin's beard! A great save by our own Ron Weasley. You are indeed the king who does not let the quaffle in!," The roars of the crowd were now being joined with old choruses of 'Weasley is our king'. The Slytherin's booed and hissed as the stands around them took light of their song and edited it for their own using.
"Yes! What a comeback! Colin Creevey has just gotten that great, big blob of lard people call Crabbe! Oi! Alright, I won't call any of the team members a big blob of lard anymore, professor McGonagall. But anyway! Colin's swinging that bat like a madman, pelting bludgers left and right. Thomas and Denis Creevey are guarding Weasley who's got the quaffle again - just a bit closer - Wait, that sod Zabini has got it - wait!- no! - wait again! Rolf is flying like a threstal! Hmm... By the look on her face, it seems she does not like being compared to a threstal. Sorry, luv!"
Netta Rolf threw the ball through one of the three, great hoops, raised a fist of victory and the ring of a score wavered in the air. The Gryffindors were stamping their feet along with the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws whilst the Slytherins spat at the field.
"GRYFFINDOR SCORES AGAIN! Look! It's the snitch and it seems Draco Malfoy is already on it! Go get that ruddy git, Harry!" Seamus Finnigan could only let out muffled cheers as Professor Snape stood while attempting to get the biased announcer out of the box. Professor Dumbledore, who sat nearby, could only chuckle softly while watching the game over his half-moon spectacles.
Draco Malfoy could hear nothing but the wind in his ears as he soared through the air, excitement pumping through him in spasms. He had gotten the head start on the snitch. Now it would be his. Only his. Victory would be held by not Harry Potter... But by Draco Malfoy. The first thing he would do after the match was right a letter to his father telling him all about how he caught the snitch and how Potter fell off his broom and landed himself in the hospital wing. A bit tweaking of a good story couldn't hurt. His pale, numb from the cold finger were outstretched, the golden ball fluttering almost carefree a few feet away from his. Draco licked his lips, hungry from the elation passing over him. Almost there... Just a bit farther and it's yours. You could almost taste the gold metal of that dodgy snitch. He lay nearly horizontal across his broomstick, stretching his arm as far as he could go. His Quiditch robbers were flapping like rippling flags behind him. Uttering a cry as he felt his fingers at last touch a buzzing wing, he was about to declare himself the winner. The Slytherin stands were howling in excitement. For once, Slytherin would win! For once, Gryffindor would be the defeated. I have got it, he said to himself.
But a sudden sharp pain in his ribs made him turn to see Potter elbowing him in the stomach while he himself was grasping for his trophy. No, it would not end this way. He would not let him take the spotlight again. Don't concentrate on Potter, you fool! His conscious screamed. But his conscious was soon blocked out but a dull roar from the crowds, slowly becoming louder.
"Go get it, Potter! Go get it, Potter!" The crowd was chanting. Draco could only see darkness as the words thundered around him. They were not cheering for him. They did not want him to win. They wanted the great Harry Potter that they all loved to win. Draco Malfoy was to be left in the dust again. His icy gray eyes were clouded as the leather clad fingers touching the snitch grasped air. The students of Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry continued to scream and shout. The chant rose louder and louder until it echoed throughout the field like a burst of song. The next thing he knew, Harry was soaring high into the air again, holding up the golden snitch.
He had lost...
Again...
"HARRY POTTER HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH!!!! GRYFFINDOR WINS!! And what a game it was!! Gryffindor has beaten those dirty, rotten tarts! You stink, Slytherin!!" Seamus was screaming, Snape nearly throwing the student over his shoulder to haul him out of the box. The house of the lion was screaming in victory, flying excited loops around Harry who had descended off his broomstick. The snitch was fluttering madly in his hand, the wings peaking in through his fingers. Ron had landed and was slapping the boy who lived heartily on the back. Ginny had nearly thrown herself into his arms and gave a very surprised Harry a great big kiss on the cheek.
"Victory is ours!" Collin Creevey bellowed, pumping a shaking fist in the air whilst his other hand clutched his bleeding nose. Denis Creevey had somehow attained his older brother's camera and was flashing away at his other teammates. Hermione had run from the stands, a grin playing on her lips as she made her way toward her friends. The stands were on their feet, waving their banners wildly as if they had just won a war. They had won. They had beaten the Slytherins again. Running fast, her brown curls bouncing, she hugged Harry congratulating him on another win and then hugged Ron. He was keeping her close, his red hair seemingly glowing. Hermione buried her face into his shoulder but froze when she felt a pair of cold eyes stare at her. Opening her eyes and looking over Ron's shoulder, she could see the form of Draco Malfoy walking by, his eyes so hard and cold that he could send her to the hospital wing petrified. The prefect stiffened as their eyes met. If looks could kill, she would most certainly be dead by now. An intense, dark aura seemed to haze around his body like poison. A split image of Lucius Malfoy flashed ominously before her orbs. The Weasley keeper sensed her discomfort and turned to see who was behind him. Hermione felt Ron's grip around her slightly tighten as the two boy's glared loathing at one another. Not again, she thought to herself. The prefect badge on her chest seemed to be buzzing a warning through her skin like a distant prickling. It told her she should break up the fight before it even began. But her fiery best friend seemed to have plans of his own.
"Sod off, Malfoy." Ron growled. Draco sneered; silently wishing the killing curse was not illegal. He had lost and he was not happy. He was not happy at all. Harry had been promoted to the winners circle once more, while he was left in the dark. Fire flamed in his ice eyes, wishing to melt anyone who dared approach him now. The wand in his robes was itching to use the cruciatus curse. Any sort of pain he could afflict on that Weasley would pleasure him enough to forget about his loss on the field.
"Or what, Weasley-king?" He asked, crossing his arms over his lithe chest. That's right, I dare you, he silently said. Harry was now at Ron and Hermione's side, his lips pursed in a deep frown. Always there for his friends, the great Harry Potter. The savior of the wizarding world and defender against the weak. It made him utterly ill. How he hated the heroes. It was the heroes that should meet an ugly, untimely end.
"Why don't you just bugger off? Everyone knows you're just jealous that Harry has beaten you again." Ron quipped. For a moment, fire splintered before his very eyes, smoldering over each and every form that faced him. Such hatred, such malevolence. Detrimental desire ran through his veins causing his blood to boil like lava in a volcano. Never had he wanted to hurt the Weasley more then he did now. It was more that Ron was truthful that sent his senses ablaze. The truth hurt, it always does when it's not in you're favor. The very truth of his jealousy seemed to have taken its own form and was laughing at him. The bones in Draco's fists cracked as his hands trembled into balls. Hermione was watching him silently, her cinnamon eyes suddenly annoying him. The annoyance just came out of nowhere in particular, but it made him want to hurt her all the more.
"You'll have to come up and buy better insults, but then again... This is a Weasley I'm talking to after all." Draco countered. An unappreciative murmur ran over the Gryffindor Quiditch players who stood behind Harry. Ginny looked like she wanted to pounce and Ron had fire bursting from his ears. Hermione was clutching his arm, telling him not to do something he might regret. But, she then turned to him, her eyes hard.
"You're just being sore, Malfoy. Why don't you use all that energy you spend ruining other people's lives to practice your seeking skills. Then you might actually catch the snitch for once in your life." Hermione replied. Snorts of laughter arose from the group and Ron jabbed Harry in the ribs with a grin. If Draco thought he had been angry with the truth of Ron's words, then it was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. Pure anger and hatred was mixed with a swell of admiration. The Slytherin's brows met each other, his mouth forming a snarl. No one talked to him like that and got away from it. Especially not a lowly, scum like mudblood Granger.
"Was I talking to you, Mudblood? Did I ask for you to intervene? But yes, I guess it comes naturally that you have to defend your thick, tosser of a boyfriend. My Father always said that the Weasleys were a dirty, defenseless lot. Almost as dirty as you silt-blooded muggle-borns. " Harry stepped forward, wand out and Ron was practically gnawing at the many arms holding him back. Ginny was screaming every curse word at him, much to his satisfaction, and even Hermione looked as though her bouncy brown curls would catch on fire. The dragon of his house found that he was rather fond of the anger he provoked out of people. Both satisfying and amusing.
"Moody might not be here, but if you're not careful, then we might just have to turn you back into a ferret, Malfoy. But then again, there wasn't that much of a difference in appearance to begin with." Harry growled, his wand shaking slightly in his hand. Draco smirked and crossed his arms, ignoring the laughter hurled at him. They could laugh at him all they wanted. In the end he knew they would all get what they deserved. Then he would be the one laughing.
"Oh, Touché, Potter..."
"Can we please end this moronic argument? McGonagall might see us and -!" Hermione was saying, her eyes searching every corner of the emptying Quiditch field. Draco sniggered under his breath and interrupted.
"What? Are you scared, Granger? Are you scared that McGonagall will take away your little prefect badge? Are you scared she might not think you're that annoying, prissy book worm that you are?" Draco taunted, his voice laden with a sneer. Hermione took a rather bold step closer to him. He made a look of distain, not wanting to be within a foot of her and her mudblood germs.
"Now see here, Malfoy! Just because you're a rotten-!" Hermione did not get to finish her insult for beater Colin Creevey, who had been wrestling one of the dodgy bludgers into the trunk, had suddenly cried out. All heads turned to the source of the yell.
"Look out! Rogue Bludger!" Colin screamed his eyes wide. Before anyone could process what was truly happening, the bludger was flying. Flying right for the group of Quiditch players. It flew like an arrow making its way toward the bull's eye. They saw it; it seemed to move in slow motion. Fear filled the eyes of each student that stood there. Each limb seemed to have been suspended and frozen in the air as the feisty little ball cackled and whizzed, wanting nothing more then to make contact. Who would it hit? Who would be the first to spill blood? Screams and gasps filled the air as the bludger soared by. But a deafening silence wavered when a yell of pain ripped through the air. All eyes turned to the immobile Slytherin as he stood there, his eyes wide, unseeing. Darkness clouded his eyes, his iris disappearing. For once, there was no malice in his eyes. No threat, no malevolence. There was nothing in his eyes. The small brown ball went unmoving from where it seemed impaled in his chest. With a whistle, it fell to the ground dead.
Hermione Granger watched, transfixed, as the bludger fell to the ground, as it had finally had its goal completed. It had picked its target and attacked. Draco Malfoy stood still, his body trembling violently, his mouth opened in a silent scream as pain tore through his very being. The bludger lay at his feet after coming in contact with his chest. He could not breathe, he could not think. There was nothing but pain. Pain was all that existed. Harry and Ron watched, frozen as he released a strangled gasp and seemingly in slow motion, fell...
In a crumpled heap, the seeker of Slytherin lay. A stray lock of platinum hair fell in his eyes and his dark lashes stroked against his pale cheeks. He lay there in the green grass unconscious, frozen in the sensation of paralysis. In the next moment, the Gryffindor team had surrounded him, whispering fearfully to each other. Hermione kneeled down next to him, a strange sense of worry filling her heart. He had gotten what he deserved, did he not? But she was not prepared for the desolation she saw in his icy orbs when the bludger came into bitter contact with his helpless body. Was he ok? How badly was he hurt? Harry had run off to get help and the remaining people in the stands were pointing down where Draco lay. Turning back to the unconscious boy, she leaned forward and put a tentative, hesitant hand to the Slytherin's neck. His skin was ice and that startled her for a moment. Taking in a quaking breath, she checked for his pulse. It beat slow, and dull. Ron was kneeling next to him, his eyebrows drawn together.
"I can't say I like the rotten bugger, but is he alright?" Ron asked. Hermione looked up at him, her eyes troubled. They needed Madam Pomfrey, and they needed her now.
"I'm not sure. The bludger hit him right on. It might have hurt one of his lungs since it rammed into his chest." Hermione said, staring down at Draco. There was something very strange about the way he looked. The usual Malfoy swaggered about, his eyes cold and mixed in a whirlwind of hate and defiance. Now he lay there, defeated in body and soul. It reminded her of a small, peaceful child who was sleeping. The only thing that could tell anyone that he was feeling discomfort was the deep frown frozen on his lips. His green clad chest rose and fell very slowly. Too slowly... While whispers filled the air around her, the prefect could not help but study him. He was a tall boy, lithe and broad shouldered. He was long legged and had silver blond hair with a pointed face and sharp cheekbones. Under the long layer of eyelashes were frozen eyes. Eyes that showed the smug bastard that everyone knew he was. Hermione felt a tad disturbed to find that she was almost pleased at once more seeing the bane of her existence suffering and showing true helplessness. It reminded her that he was indeed human like she was.
"Out of my way!" Yelled a familiar voice. Whipping around, Hermione and Ron looked to see Madam Pomfrey stalking toward them. Professor McGonagall and Snape were following closely behind. Standing up away from the blond seeker with relief, she watched as the school medi-witch kneeled down by Draco, a worried expression across her face. Would he be alright? Harry joined them, watching his arch rival with an unreadable expression. It seemed that Draco's helplessness put a hold on the hate they all felt for him. Until he was better, a cloud of neutrality floated above their heads. The war was dormant for then.
Madam Pomfrey was waving her wand over his chest, pursing her lips tightly. Professor Snape was kneeling down on the other side of Draco, quickly removing the leather Quiditch gloves and wrist guards. McGonagall was trying to lead the remaining students away from the scene. It seemed even the professors knew that Draco would not want any of his fellow students seeing him hurt. It would taint his dignity.
"Madam Pomfrey, will he be alright?" Asked Hermione.
"I am not too sure, Ms. Granger... I think the force of the hit may have punctured one of his lungs," Said the nurse. Eyes widened and whispers were shared hastily. Before anyone could speak, Draco had been lifted on a floating stretcher and was being lead back toward the castle. As he was lifted in the air, his arm fell limply at his side and something gold slipped off his finger. Watching the retreating forms of the professors and the remaining students, Hermione approached the patch of grass where the ring lay. It glittered brightly in the sunlight, but there was something about the piece of jewelry that she did not like or fathom. It was only until she bent to pick it up that she realized why she did not like it. The crest of the Malfoy family was carved into a glassy black stone. Fingering it, the gold seemed to burn in her hands. Snarling, the prefect felt the strong urge to throw it back down onto the ground, step on it, and then melt it with her wand. But it was not hers, nor her decision what was to be done with it. Hesitantly, she placed it into her pocket and decided to pay Malfoy a visit later to return it to him.
Harry and Ron were talking quietly to each other a short distance away for her. The victory of their house went forgotten as talk about what had just happened came about. It was then that Hermione realized that no Slytherin students had been on the field since the game. They seemingly disappeared after the snitches capture by Harry. That lot is probably off sulking their loss, she whispered to herself. Some team they were to not hang around long enough to watch their team mate fall and be in need of aid, possibly some care. Pansy would no doubt give it to him, unless of course she herself felt embarrassed by Draco's loss of victory. That thought alone brought the Gryffindor prefect to the conclusion that not one Slytherin had a heart. Malfoy had given them not a reason to care but that did not stop even her own house mates from calling for help. A bitter taste formed in her mouth. The house of the serpent truly disgusted her.
"Hey, 'Mione! Come on, it's chilly out here. Let's go inside before we freeze our arse's off." Ron called. Hermione gazed at the doorway that Malfoy had been taken into only ten minutes ago. Never would she forget the sight of him defeated. It had been added to her many memorable times at Hogwarts. Her hand closed around the ring in her robe pocket, wind tearing through her hair, bringing the curls to brush along the sides of her face. A gentle song was lifted on through the sharp breeze, whispers floating. Sun set would not be long... Then turning away, Hermione Granger caught up with her friends.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ A/N: HEY! I hope u like that chapter! The next one will probably be up next weekend. Please review!
Namaarie
Leanna
